


Holding With Tradition

by moonix



Category: Havemercy Series - Jaida Jones & Danielle Bennett
Genre: F/F, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 13:09:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10022039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonix/pseuds/moonix
Summary: Three ladies Antoinette has kissed under mistletoe.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I completely forgot I wrote this... a year ago? I'm terribly sorry this is so out of season now, haha.
> 
> (Heads-up for someone throwing up in scene 2, otherwise no warnings I can think of!)

**Marcelline**

Antoinette finds her outside in the cold.

Winter has broken over Volstov like a sheet of glass, covering everything with a sharp, glittering veneer, the kind of frost that makes one's fingertips stick to everything they touch, and the inner courtyard of the Basquiat is powdered in the white fur of the first snow. Marcelline's red hair looks like a clutch of winter berries against her pale surroundings, and she has pulled her sheepskin cloak tight around her shoulders.

“What are you doing here, my dear?” Antoinette asks her, stepping underneath the canopy of the tree in the centre of the courtyard to join her colleague. “They've lit the fires inside, you should mind your health.”

Marcelline smiles.

“I'm quite alright, thank you, Lady Antoinette,” she says, teasingly, her dark eyes shiny and clear like a night sky. Then she points upwards, and Antoinette raises her head to look, against her better impulses. In the bare branches of the tree clings a skimpy wisp of light green, curled protectively around its meagre crop of two or three white berries.

“Mistletoe,” says Marcelline around a smile. “First I've seen this season.”

“Well,” Antoinette allows herself to smirk. There's no one else in the courtyard, and everyone will be clustered around the fires now, away from the draughty corridors and frost-painted windows. “Do you hold with the old traditions, Margrave Marcelline?”

“Occasionally,” Marcelline replies, inclining her head to the side, “when it suits me.”

“And does it suit you, in this moment?” Antoinette asks. She flicks her eyes back up to the mistletoe, and Marcelline does the same.

“Yes,” she says simply.

Antoinette claims her kiss softly, like a snowflake landing on one's lips. Marcelline looks amused at this display of chivalry, but she lets it go, and Antoinette takes her arm to walk her back inside, where Caius Greylace has instigated a contest between some of the burlier men to see who can toast the best marshmallow over the fire in the conference room. Antoinette is sure she can hear Alcibiades mutter crossly about how they all have the wrong technique, though he himself is not participating, and so Antoinette kindly liberates him of the little stick Caius has provided him with, and offers it to Marcelline.

“Care to show these imbeciles how it's done?”

“With pleasure,” Marcelline says, and cups her hands around the marshmallow. Her Talent has always been rather more gentle and refined than those of the other Margraves, the ones that Nico likes to send out into battle – Royston's, for instance, while far more destructive, is also of little use in daily life.

At least, Antoinette is fairly sure he would fail the marshmallow test, and pops Marcelline's flawlessly toasted creation into her mouth with a wink.

 

**Berhane**

The thing about Berhane is, she's so very composed until she's not.

The first time Antoinette sees Berhane drunk, she is playing High Kings with Caius, and looks just like she always does – blond curls tightly tucked into a strict fishbone plait that arcs over the back of her head, all five hundred tiny buttons on her high-collared green dress firmly closed, not a speck of colour out of place on her face. Sometimes, even Antoinette admires the no-nonsense lines of her lipstick, which she never goes without, and which is always the exact same shade. It is entirely reasonable to imagine that Berhane might have a nervous breakdown one day when they inevitably stop making this shade, or change it just the tiniest bit.

“I see you are losing,” Antoinette remarks as she perches on the arm of Berhane's velvet armchair. Seconds later, she has to hastily move her skirt out of the way as Berhane lurches forward and vomits on Caius's quaint gold slippers.

“Alas,” Caius says with a hint of regret, “I was so very fond of these shoes.”

“I'm sorry,” Berhane gasps miserably, her cards scattered on the table. Antoinette bends down to pick a stray one out of her skirt. It seems that Berhane has lost all composure over the last few seconds: her hair is peeling messily away from the plait, two of her buttons have come undone, and her face is flushed and creased. Feeling sorry for her, Antoinette pats her back.

“Come, my dear,” she says, “let's find you a bathroom. Caius, you might want to borrow a pair of boots from one of the staff, they usually have spares.”

“I could do that,” he smiles brightly. Antoinette distinctly hears him mutter “ _or_ I could find myself a nice young man to carry me home barefoot,” but by that time she is too busy escorting Berhane out of the room and making sure her plait doesn't unravel completely on the way to feel much sympathy for whichever poor soul Caius is about to accost and charm into being his servant for the night.

“There you go,” she says, leading poor Berhane over to the sink and turning on the water for her. Berhane rinses out her mouth and delicately splashes some on her face, then rinses her mouth again and turns it off, yanking at the pins that hold her complicated plait in place before Antoinette has even found her a towel to dry off.

“Was that really necessary?” Antoinette wants to know as Berhane starts furiously reknotting her hair.

“Of course it was,” Berhane snaps, though not entirely unkindly. “You of all people should know, Antoinette, how important it is to look -”

“Pristine,” Antoinette finishes for her. “I do.”

She checks her own hair in the mirror, which is when she spots the artful arrangement of mistletoe and gold twine above the sink that is undoubtedly Caius's doing. He has never much cared about whether or not the signs on the bathroom doors wear skirts or trousers, and Antoinette recognises his handiwork from last year, when he bestowed the same mischief on the ceiling of the conference room, strategically placed above the seats reserved for foreign diplomats on the evening before the Arlemagne were to arrive.

Berhane catches sight of it at the same time as Antoinette.

“I strongly doubt that you would want to kiss me after I have just ruined Greylace's shoes with the contents of my stomach,” she says, brittle as ever, her hair once again tamed within the confines of a plait. She fiddles with her buttons and adds: “Though it does pain me to leave such an opportunity wasted.”

“Not at all, dear Berhane,” Antoinette smiles, then takes one of Berhane's small, cold hands in hers and swoops a gallant kiss onto the back with a bow. “There you go. Tradition is served.”

Berhane quirks an eyebrow at her.

“I didn't mean for the sake of your Ramanthe heritage, my lady,” she says wryly, “but I approve the sentiment nonetheless.”

“I know you do,” Antoinette smirks, and together, they leave the bathroom to rejoin the fray and find out just how many unfortunate gentlemen Caius has amassed to do his bidding in their absence.

 

**Anastasia**

It is Nico who first introduces them, in the midst of a flurry of preparations for the Yule festival, servants scurrying every which way to drape the palace corridors in festive garlands, sparkling ivy and stars woven out of gold twine. Nico intends to announce his choice of bride the same night, and he is hoping for Antoinette's approval first, swaying minutely on his heels, a nervous frown etched on his face. Anastasia is a sensible option, he knows that. Born to a noble family, raised to be gracious, pleasant, representative. No one is going to question the union, and Thremedon will have a busy couple of weeks gearing up for the wedding. Antoinette is almost amused that Nico seeks her blessing, especially now, when it is too late anyway, and it tempts her to withhold it for a little bit longer just to see him writhe.

“Milady,” she says, offering her arm, “why don't we go for a little walk around the menagerie while your fiancé tends to his royal business? I hear the Greylace boy has ordered a shipment of wildcats that are very interesting to look at.”

Nico fidgets with his gloves, and Anastasia lets herself be swept away by Antoinette, a minuscule dimple in her cheek betraying her awareness of what Antoinette is doing.

“They say you are his confidante,” Anastasia says softly as they amble past the birdhouse with its miniature spires and domes. The fresh snow makes short purring sounds under her delicate, pointed boots, small exhalations of pressure.

“It would please me to become yours, as well,” Antoinette offers with a smile. Anastasia is still holding on to her arm, dainty fingers tucked into fur-lined gloves. They stop in front of the cage that has recently been refurbished and filled with two slinky, striped felines that watch suspiciously from its depths, tails swishing soundlessly on the ground.

“I suppose I shall have to share a secret with you, then?” Anastasia suggests playfully.

“Not even married yet, and you already have secrets to share?” Antoinette teases. “Let's hear what the future Esarina has to say for herself.”

Anastasia smiles and looks up at the top of the cage, where a few sprigs of mistletoe are affixed to the bars with shiny red ribbon, snow flakes dusting the fabric.

“They say a kiss under mistletoe brings good luck for the new year, do they not?” she asks.

“If you believe the old Ramanthe superstitions,” Antoinette says, just a hint of amused irony tugging at the edges of her words. They are her heritage, after all, superstitions or not, and she has always enjoyed honouring this particular tradition when the opportunity presents itself.

“Well, I suppose it cannot hurt to try,” Anastasia hums. “Would you be willing?”

Antoinette is. Anastasia stands stiffly under the mistletoe, her gloved hands clasped in front of her, but her lips are pliant and soft under Antoinette's, and when she draws back, Anastasia is glowing happily.

“I was hoping my first kiss wouldn't be from my husband,” she confesses, looking suddenly much younger, mischievous like a pixie with her hair spilling out under her white fur hat and her cheeks stained red from the cold. “Thank you.”

Antoinette is momentarily taken aback, then gathers herself and looks at the wildcats in the cage.

“That is indeed a secret you might want to keep from said husband.”

“Oh, I will,” Anastasia smiles. “It is a good thing, having a confidante. I'm quite enjoying it so far.”

Antoinette laughs.

 


End file.
